


Deeply

by theorchardofbones



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everybody Lives, Gladio Rarepair Week, Happy Ending, M/M, Slow Build, canon adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 09:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17743415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: At eight years old, Gladiolus Amicitia is promised to a foreign prince; with time they come to know each other through a handful of meetings, and Gladiolus struggles to make his peace with his future.





	Deeply

**Author's Note:**

> Ohhh boy, I spent _entirely_ too long working on this and kind of... neglected to write anything else for Gladio Rarepair Week. Oops.
> 
> Written for Day 1, Marriage of Convenience/Arranged Marriage.

When Gladio first meets Ravus, he is eight years old, and Ravus eleven.

He is old enough to understand some things — talk of marriage; talk of war. Yet he doesn’t understand the look in his father’s eyes when he avoids Gladio’s glance, and he doesn’t understand why his mother strokes his hair like she hasn’t since he was little.

He knows that the woman at Ravus’s side, prim and austere, is the queen of Tenebrae. That must make Ravus the prince.

He doesn’t understand why these foreigners are here, in the Crown City; he doesn’t understand why he has to be here, instead of training to use the sword.

‘So we are all agreed, then.’

King Regis stands at the head of the table, leaning his weight on it. He looks tired, Gladio thinks. Tired, and so very old.

‘Aye,’ Clarus says, from his perch to the king’s right.

‘Aye,’ the queen says, where she stands to the king’s left.

They sign document after document, and it wears on for so long that Gladio begins to swoon on his feet with boredom.

‘My lord,’ Jared says. The steward steps forward from his silent vigil in the corner, apologetic. ‘Might I suggest the boy be excused? I’m sure he needn’t sit through the tedium of the contract-signing.’

‘Very well,’ Clarus says. ‘He could use some fresh air.’

‘Ravus will accompany him.’

It is the queen; she speaks strangely, the high dialect of Tenebrae. Gladio doesn’t think he likes her, in her fancy raiment and jewelled crown.

Jared nods.

‘Certainly, Your Grace.’

Jared ushers Gladio out; with a glance back over his shoulder, Gladio has just enough time to see Ravus falling into step behind him before Jared gently nudges him forward.

They go to the terrace garden by the council chambers. Gladio has come here many a time to while away hours waiting for Clarus to get out of meetings — even practiced his footwork, among the topiaries and flower beds.

It’s been raining today, so the ground is wet, the sky grey and dismal. He looks sullenly down at his feet as Ravus strolls past him, inspecting the view.

‘How does Insomnia compare to the capital at Tenebrae, Highness?’ Jared asks.

There’s a sigh from Ravus. When Gladio steals a glance in his direction, he’s craning his head upwards to look at the building where it towers above.

‘It’s fine, I suppose,’ he murmurs.

Gladio feels a surge of anger. Who is this foreign prince, to speak with such disinterest of the Crown City?

‘It’s better than fine,’ he blurts, his cheeks hot. ‘I bet Tenebrae doesn’t even have a Crystal!’

Ravus turns; when his steel-grey eyes meet Gladio’s, they’re cold with indignation.

‘I am a prince of Tenebrae,’ he hisses. ‘We may be betrothed, but never forget that I’m your better.’

Gladio blinks. Damned Tenebraeans and their fancy clothes and fancy words. He spits on the ground, and before Jared can stop him, he storms inside.

It’s later, when he’s restricted to his room as punishment, that he sneaks out and finds Ignis.

Ignis may only be seven years old, but he’s the smartest person Gladio knows — and even though he’s from Tenebrae, Gladio won’t hold it against him.

‘Iggy,’ he says, plucking at the edge of the crochet blanket on his friend’s bed. ‘What’s  _ betrothed _ mean?’

Ignis adjusts his glasses, and he gets that look he always wears when he’s about to be a know-it-all, throwing his shoulders back like he’s reciting something ordained by the Astrals themselves.

‘Betrothed,’ he says, matter-of-fact, ‘is when a person is promised to be married to someone else.’

Gladio swallows. What Ravus said, out on the terrace — he must’ve just been saying it to try to put him in his place, right?

He can’t  _ really _ have meant it…

* * *

 

 

* * *

Gladio is fourteen when his mother falls ill; Iris is only four.

The sickness takes her in the night. He never gets the chance to say goodbye.

He throws himself into his training, into his studies. Spends long nights committing to memory everything that’s expected of him as Shield, and wakes early the next day to perform the drills his father taught him.

He runs himself ragged; five days after his mother’s passing, he winds up in the infirmary, exhausted and delirious.

He doesn’t recognise Ravus when he comes to visit. Doesn’t know this stranger — almost a man now, at seventeen.

It’s the second time they’ve met.

‘Son,’ Clarus says, as he leads the prince in. ‘Gladiolus. Prince Ravus came to visit you.’

Gladio wonders, even through the haze of the fever, if it was  _ Prince Ravus’s _ choice to travel all the way from Tenebrae, or if he was prodded into coming along at the behest of those who understand politics and diplomacy better than he.

He certainly seems uncomfortable where he stands beside Gladio’s bed, holding his nose up as though the stark smell of disinfectant offends him.

‘I came to offer my condolences,’ Ravus says stiffly. ‘Lady Amicitia will be missed.’

_ How would you know? _ Gladio wants to shout.  _ How dare you act like you care? _

He keeps his mouth shut, though, too weak to fight. Too weak to protest, as Ravus steps away for a moment and returns with a vase filled with vibrant blue flowers.

‘Sylleblossoms,’ he says, quietly. ‘The native flower of Tenebrae. They symbolise hope.’

Gladio looks away.

His throat feels tight; he wills himself to keep the tears at bay, to keep from letting this stranger see the weakness in him.

* * *

 

 

* * *

‘You call that footwork? We’re sparring, Highness, not dancing.’

His words only seem to fuel Ravus. With a rush of pleasure at inciting such a reaction from the normally-unruffled prince, he easily parries a blow from Ravus and counters with a swing of his sword.

It might be a dance to Ravus, but his fluid motions have their own merits on the training ground — while his movements might be extravagant, at times superfluous, there’s a grace to him that Gladio lacks. When he dodges away from Gladio’s strike, he quickly recovers to deliver a counter of his own, and the flat of his blade raps Gladio on the arm, sharp and stinging.

‘There’s no room in combat for banter, Lord Amicitia,’ Ravus says coolly. ‘Perhaps if you were more focused, you wouldn’t have allowed me to hit you with such an easy strike.’

Heat rushes to Gladio’s skin. Ravus has a point.

‘Gentlemen.’

Instinct has Gladio standing to immediate attention at the sound of the Marshal’s voice, casting his sword away into the Armiger as he snaps his feet together and stands rigid. When he shoots a look toward Ravus out the corner of his eye, the prince shows Cor no such respect, sweeping a hand through sweat-damp pale hair as he grabs his water bottle from his things.

‘His Majesty wants to see you both,’ Cor says. ‘In the terrace garden, by the council chambers.’

It’s not unusual for King Regis to summon Gladio personally — he’ll be Noct’s Shield someday, after all, and a member of the council to boot — but the venue itself is an odd one. As Cor permits him to stand at ease with a wave of his hand, Gladio steals a glance in Ravus’s direction.

The prince seems unmoved. Then again, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking on the best of days.

The king is admiring a particularly delicate lily when they arrive on the terrace, Ravus taking up the rear. Gladio’s almost afraid to disturb him — he seems so lost in thought.

‘Your Majesty,’ he says, with a bow. ‘You requested our presence?’

‘Ah, Gladiolus. Prince Ravus. Thank you both for coming.’

Whatever the reason for his summoning them, he doesn’t come out with it right away, instead returning his attention to the lily poised gently between his fingers, as if it were an object of utmost importance.

‘Gladiolus,’ he says, eventually. ‘You’ll be nineteen in the spring, yes?’

Gladio nods his head.

‘Yessir.’

The king is silent again, musing over the bloom in his grasp. He seems to come to some sort of decision, and promptly lifts his head to look each young man in the eye.

‘I’ve discussed it at length with Lord Amicitia,’ King Regis says. ‘We believe it would be best if you were to travel to Tenebrae for a time.’

Gladio balks — what the hell? Where’s this coming from?

‘But—’ he interjects, and he has to reel himself in. ‘No disrespect, Your Majesty, but Noct—’

‘Will be just fine for a month or two with the Crownsguard to keep an eye on him,’ the king retorts, his eyes crinkling in a fond smile. ‘It would do neither of you any harm to have some time apart. At any rate — you’ve never travelled outside Lucis, have you?’

Swallowing, Gladio shakes his head.

‘It’s settled, then,’ the king says, with a resolute nod. ‘Spring should do nicely, around May Day. Prince Ravus — your people celebrate the spring festival, do they not?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

‘Very good,’ King Regis replies. ‘Thank you, that will be all.’

It takes Gladio entirely too long to realise he’s been dismissed. With a lurch, he turns around; Ravus has already gone off ahead of him.

* * *

 

 

* * *

Tenebrae is beautiful as the last of the winter trickles away to welcome spring. Gladio suspects it’s  _ always _ beautiful, though.

He’s apprehensive as the train pulls into the station, where the the capital sprawls beyond the windows. He turned nineteen weeks ago; next year, he’ll be twenty. When he hits the Lucian age of majority, the betrothal contract will take effect.

Tenebraean retainers greet him off the train, and — and it must be Princess Lunafreya at the head of them all, in her sweeping robes of pure white, her hair shining gold in the watery sunlight.

‘Lord Gladiolus,’ she says, striding toward him with a smile that warms her eyes — eyes brought out in a vivid shade of blue by the bunch of sylleblossoms she holds out to him.

‘Your Highness,’ he says, somehow managing a bow even with all the luggage he tows along with him.

‘Oh, goodness,’ the princess says, her laughter ringing clear. ‘If we’re to be brother and sister, it will never do to call me  _ Your Highness. _ Please, call me Luna.’

Gladio’s just meeting the girl for the first time — he knows a little of her, through her correspondence with Noct — and already she wants to be on first-name terms. It occurs to him that he should balk at it, but something about the warmth of her makes him feel at ease, as though he’s known her all his life.

‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘Your H—  _ Luna.’ _

‘It’s so wonderful that you could be here for May Day,’ Luna says, as Gladio falls into step with her and her retinue. ‘I’ve never seen how it’s celebrated in Lucis. I do hope our humble festivities can compare.’

Gladio snorts in spite of himself.

‘The only festival Lucians really throw themselves into is the winter solstice,’ he says dryly.

‘Oh, what a shame!’ Luna replies. With a candid smile, she adds, ‘Perhaps it’s a tradition you might bring home with you.’

Gladio’s read enough about Tenebrae not to be startled by the sight of the little islands suspended in the air, but no amount of glossy pictures in coffee table books can prepare him for actually seeing it in the flesh. He knows it’s all down to geothermal what-have-you, but no amount of science could explain away the vision of great, floating islands of verdant green, complete with waterfalls spilling off into the ether.

He thinks back to when he’d chewed Ravus out for being so flippant about the Crown City; now, he can understand a little better why the prince of  _ this _ place wasn’t more impressed.

‘Where is the prince?’ Gladio asks, continuing his thoughts out loud as Luna leads him to a line of carriages waiting to pick them up.

‘Oh, probably sulking somewhere,’ Luna says with a sigh. ‘Mother wants him to take part in the May Day celebrations, since it will probably be his last time here for it.’

_ Last time? _ Gladio almost asks, but then it hits him, a suckerpunch to the gut.

Of course. Next year, they’ll be getting married.

The nerves burrow away within him like a rot. It’s still a year away, but it looms over him more with each day that passes.

Fenestala Manor itself is like something out of a dream: steeped in thick, plush ivy, pillars of pale marble shine through in the light. Bridges connect the island on which the manor sits with all the others, and it’s on one of these bridges that their carriage brings them, headed straight for the manor.

‘I’m sure you’ll want to rest after your journey,’ Luna says. ‘But there’ll be a feast tonight, if you have an appetite.’

The thought of food is an appealing one, but Gladio can’t quite stifle the yawn that rips itself free of him. He wonders if Tenebraean beds are comfier than back home…

* * *

Luna was right about Ravus — he’s been sulking ever since Gladio arrived, although Gladio suspects it has nothing to do with the spring festival and  _ everything _ to do with his visit.

It’s hard not to feel the weight of the prince’s bad mood in the manor, even as vast as it is.

It’s not exactly a secret that the whole point of this trip is for Gladio to get to know the man he’s promised to marry — and the family from which he comes. The more Ravus’s foul mood settles over the place, however, the more Gladio finds himself spending time with Luna, instead.

He reckons it’d be impossible to dislike the princess. She’s sweet and unassuming, but she has a fiery side to her, when need be. On his second day in Tenebrae, he witnesses her chewing her brother out in spectacular fashion; Ravus actually seems to  _ flinch. _

It’s not palace life as Gladio would have expected it — but then, they don’t even live in the palace, preferring the less formal surroundings of the manor. When he meets the queen for the first time since that day in the council chambers a decade ago, she’s not the terrifying figure of ice that he’d thought she was; she greets him like a son.

When May Day arrives, there’s a very tangible shift in the atmosphere at the manor. Everybody’s in good spirits, and as Gladio walks down to the dining hall that morning to find the room strung up with garlands of blue sylleblossoms, he can’t help it when that good mood rubs off on him a little, too.

He’s humming over a stack of pancakes with powdered sugar and berries when Luna enters. She’s already decked out for the day in a flowing dress of pale purple, her blonde hair twisted into a long side braid with sylleblossom petals littered throughout.

‘Wow, Luna,’ he says, whistling long and low. ‘You look amazing.’

‘Thank you,’ Luna replies. ‘Were you planning on coming to the festivities today?’

Gladio shrugs.

‘Seems like the place to be. You got a part to play in it?’

Luna gives a nod of her head, and a smile, and her eyes light up as she begins her explanation.

‘The theme of the spring festival is the spring taking over from the winter,’ she says. ‘When Ravus and I were younger, our mother used to have Ravus play the part of winter, and I of spring. Before the maypole dance, we’ll perform the dance of the first bloom. It’s rather beautiful — although it’s been years since we last took part in it.’

Gladio takes it all in with a nod. Back home, May Day doesn’t even warrant a public holiday; mostly it’s just an excuse for stores to switch to a spring theme.

‘What time’s it all goin’ down?’

‘Noon,’ Luna says, with a glance toward the clock. ‘You still have time, if you’d like to change into something more seasonal.’

‘Only brought black,’ Gladio retorts, with a sheepish grin. ‘Think they’ll still let me in?’

Luna’s answering smile is teasing and candid, as she leans close and rests a friendly hand on his shoulder.

‘I’ll vouch for you, if it comes to it.’

* * *

The festivities are out in a huge, sprawling pasture, with sylleblossoms swaying in the breeze as far as the eye can see. Something about the sight of it — of the maypole at the centre of it all, decked out in ribbons, and the children waiting in their springtime regalia with flower crowns in their hair — fills Gladio with a swelling feeling in his chest.

He’s never really paid much attention to the passing of the seasons. Sure, he marks the time from one holiday to the next, what with all the gifts he has to buy, and all the duties that are expected of him at royal festivities; to celebrate the arrival of each season, though, is a novelty to him. He exults in watching the Tenebraeans dive into the festival, as if normal life has frozen for just a moment in time.

The gathered crowd bubbles over with excited conversation all around him — children, tugging at their mothers’ skirts; teenagers holding hands and stealing kisses when they think nobody’s watching.

When Gladio catches sight of Luna again for the first time since leaving the manor, her cheeks are pink with exhilaration, her eyes wide and sparkling. She stands by a makeshift stage, stooping low to speak to a young girl in spring regalia.

Gladio raises his hand, tries to wave, to catch her eye — but then movement just past her catches his eye, and his breath is stolen away.

Ravus is in a gown of pure white, the material infused with something that makes it glitter in the light when he moves. His hair is braided back at the temples, hanging loose behind him. Where Luna’s hair is adorned with petals, his has an arrangement of twigs dusted with something that sparkles like ice, twisted to look like a winter crown.

Gladio drops his hand and lets it hang limply at his side. Whatever he’s feeling right now, whatever that tightness in his chest might be, he shakes it off and turns away.

* * *

Music plays — soft, mournful strains that prickle at the back of Gladio’s neck like frost. The crowd, so merry and boisterous only moments ago, stands around the stage in rapt attention.

Ravus is poised at the centre of it, his body contorted like a barren tree whose branches reach toward the sky. Somehow, it’s like the sun shines a spotlight on him, catching the glinting quality of his gown; as Gladio watches, everybody else seems to fade away.

Ravus moves slowly, awakening to the music. He twists, sweeping in a low, fluid motion, turning so that Gladio can see him. His face is devoid of its usual scowl; his skin is dusted with that same glistening frost, his lips and eyelashes painted pale as moonlight.

His movements are sombre, sad almost — painfully beautiful, somehow, like the soft whisper of snow falling on a lonely night.

The prince might’ve been reluctant to reprise his role in this performance, but he plays it with mournful elegance. Suddenly Gladio understands why he fights with a dancer’s grace.

There’s a flourish in the music: a hint of something capricious. A hand brushes across Gladio’s shoulder and he looks to the side to see Luna traipsing past him, slipping through the crowd, her smile bright and playful.

She steps up to the stage and Ravus seems to recoil from her, to dance away from her in fear — but she pursues him, her steps fleet and youthful while his are more restrained.

Their dance is a give and take. For every inch that Ravus retreats, Luna follows. Gladio doesn’t need to know the history behind the festival to understand: Luna is the first blossoming of spring, and Ravus shies from her, reluctant to give up his dominion over the world.

His movements become more aggressive, the music discordant. This time, when she comes for him, he catches her arm and they seem to be at war with one another, each showing a fiery tenacity. This tug-of-war goes on, getting fiercer and fiercer, until Ravus suddenly falls away, stumbling to his knees.

Luna is gentle, though, deftly stepping around him as she strokes his cheek. She leans down and takes his hands, pulling him to his feet, and they dance in harmony this time, the music peaceful now: hopeful.

All eyes within the crowd are on Luna as her steps grow more confident, overshadowing her brother’s, but Gladio can’t seem to peel his glance off of Ravus’s face where he wears a serene expression, resigned to his fate. Gladio watches as he slips away, bowing to his sister — to the spring — and steps down from the stage.

The music is joyful and bright, meant to evoke the hopefulness of spring after a long, hard winter, but Gladio hardly notices Luna where she takes up the centre stage, whirling and spinning in a flurry of movement.

His eyes are still on Ravus, his heart hammering at his throat.

* * *

They celebrate with fireworks after sundown, and the starburst of lights in the sky can be seen for miles around. Children are allowed to stay up long after their bedtime, although soon they’re drooping on their feet and their parents lead them away, leaving the older revellers to enjoy the night.

Gladio’s sipping ulwaat cider when Luna slips up to him; her hair’s a little dishevelled now, but she’s just as beautiful as she had been during her dance.

‘What do you think?’ she asks, slipping an arm companionably through his. The warmth of her against his side is nice. It makes him miss Iris.

‘Sure is somethin’ special,’ he says.

‘I saw you watching the dance,’ she says. She bumps her hip against his, and it’s so  _ unprincessly _ that Gladio could laugh. ‘Well, I saw you watching  _ Ravus.’ _

Gladio’s never considered himself a blusher. Noct’s friend Prompto, sure — even Ignis, if you strike the right nerve. Gladio’s the guy who never lets a damn thing faze him and yet now, knowing that Luna caught him looking at Ravus,  _ now’s _ the moment that heat chooses to pool under Gladio’s cheeks.

He hopes it’s too dark for her to see.

‘He’s sulking,’ Luna says, with an exasperated sigh. ‘He might act as though he hates being dragged into the festivities, but I know he’ll miss it.’

Guilt twinges in Gladio’s stomach. It’s ridiculous, in a way: it’s not like  _ he _ was the one who arranged their betrothal. He knows, though, that for all the dread he feels,  _ Ravus _ must feel it all the worse, knowing he’ll leave behind his homeland to live with a relative stranger.

Conviction rings through him, strong and true. He wants to put it right — somehow.

‘Where is he?’ he asks, innocently. ‘Ain’t seen him since the dance.’

He feels Luna shift, and when he glances down at her, she’s peering up at him with a knowing little smile on her lips.

‘You might find him at the gazebo, in the east gardens,’ she says.  _ ‘If _ you cared to look.’

With a devious glance, she slips away, her dress sweeping through the grass beneath her as she ambles toward the life at the heart of the festivities.

Gladio flips it over in his head as he brings the glass of cider to his lips. There’s every chance Ravus might send him away, but he can’t help thinking it’s still worth it to try, at least.

He sighs. For courage, he tips back his drink, draining it in a few gulps.

As promised, Ravus stands underneath the gazebo. He’s partly concealed by the ivy that drapes down the columns of it, and there’s a flash of pale hair and a pale gown where he stands leaning over the barrier.

The closer Gladio gets, the more he starts to second-guess. Whatever courage he’d managed to muster up before is gone now, chased away by the sight of Ravus standing there, cold and still in thennight.

_ What’ve you got to lose? _ Gladio scolds himself.  _ You barely know each other. He probably hates you already. _

He hesitates for so long it feels like time has frozen. And then— his legs move, as if by themselves.

Ravus must hear his footsteps as he grosses the grass. He glances up once Gladio’s at the foot of the steps up to the platform, only to look away again.

Gladio tries to think what he’d say to break the ice with anyone — anyone else. He’s never had trouble keeping company with strangers and friends alike, but with Ravus it’s like the words never seem to come out right. 

He moves to the barrier and rests his weight against it, a little away from Ravus. The boards of the platform sigh underneath his weight.

The fireworks are still going on overhead, loud pops piercing the air every so often. The colours of the lights cast a glow over Ravus’s face, over his snow-white hair. He’s beautiful, in an intimidating way: like a coeurl, ready to snap at you if you get too close.

‘Are you going to stand there all night, or did you want something?’

There’s no bite to Ravus’s words — just weariness. 

Gladio’s tired too. He wants to say it; to remind Ravus that they’re both caught up in this damn thing, that they’re both going to lose so much. Every time he tries to dredge together the words, to snap out some bitter retort, he can only see the image of Ravus dancing earlier, his face forlorn.

The dance had been about the spring coming to breathe new life into the world, and Luna’s movements had been so cheerful, so full of hope. Ravus, though… Some of it had been a performance, sure, but there was as much that wasn’t, too.

‘Your sister’s pretty special,’ he says, finally. ‘I can see why Noct cares so much about her.’

Ravus draws in a sharp breath. When Gladio looks over, his brow is furrowed.

‘Prince Noctis,’ he replies shortly, ‘is very young, and still has a great deal to learn. If his attempts at corresponding with Lunafreya are anything to go by.’

‘So you’ve seen the notebooks, huh?’ Gladio asks wryly.

Ravus makes an exasperated sound.

‘Lunafreya sent him a sketch of the fields of sylleblossoms in bloom, and he sent it back with some ridiculous sticker because it  _ reminded him of her.’ _

Gladio can’t help but snort. He’d been there when Noct had picked it out — a little hamster holding a flower. The way Noct’s face had lit up when he’d seen it, it’d kinda been adorable.

He understands Ravus’s irritation, though. His only brushes with Lucians have been political ones: he’ll have to leave his scenic home to marry a stranger, and live out the rest of his days in Insomnia.

‘Noct might surprise you,’ he says. ‘He’s different when he talks with Luna. She brings somethin’ out in him.’

Ravus sighs. It looks like it pains him to spit out whatever it is he’s going to say next. 

‘I suppose you’re right. I’ve never seen her smile quite so brightly as when Umbra returns from Lucis.’

He sounds so grudging, like he’s  _ disappointed _ that Luna likes the prince.

Gladio wonders if there isn’t more to it. He can’t help but feel the weight of their betrothal all the more heavily each day; he can’t be the only one.

‘I know it’s tough,’ Gladio says, choosing his words carefully. He looks out to the sky from the gazebo, where the last of the explosions of light have begun to fade away. ‘Neither of us asked for this. I know you probably hate me.’

He feels the air shift, like Ravus has gone very stiff beside him. When he steals a glance in the other man’s direction, he’s so still in his winter getup that he looks like he’s frozen in ice.

‘I don’t hate you,’ Ravus says quietly.

_ Could’ve fooled me. _

Gladio bites it back, though. He gets the feeling Ravus is the kind of guy who clams up if you press him. Not like a deer in the headlights, more like— more like a spider slinking back into its lair.

That’s an interesting mental image: Ravus, pale as the snow, with eight long spindly legs. It’s enough to make Gladio smirk.

‘What’s so amusing?’ Ravus says sharply.

The smirk drops.

‘Nothin’,’ Gladio mutters. ‘Private joke.’

Ravus’s weight is resting on the barrier once more. He sinks down, nestling his chin in his hand; Gladio’s not sure if he’s looking out into the night, or if he’s a thousand miles away in his own head.

‘Highness,’ Gladio says.

It almost feels like a shame to interrupt him, especially when he looks up with a V of irritation at his brow.

‘I had all these ideas of marryin’ somebody just like my mom when I was a kid,’ Gladio says. ‘She’s— she was the strongest woman I ever met. I could only dream of finding somebody like her.’

Ravus looks away.

‘How wonderful for you.’

Anger wells up within Gladio, hot and irresistible. He’s trying to open up here, trying to level with Ravus, and the guy can’t even give him an inch. His gut tells him to snap back some retort, but as he opens his mouth he lets it all slip away with a sigh. Ravus is hurting. He gets that.

‘I’m tryin’ here, Highness,’ Gladio says. ‘We’re getting married next year and I don’t even know you. I just… I figured maybe if we  _ knew _ something about each other, it’d be different.’

Ravus has gone stiff again. Where his free hand clutches the barrier, his knuckles are white.

‘That was the point of this trip, wasn’t it?’ he says dully. ‘To get to know each other.’

He couldn’t sound more depressed about the prospect if he tried.

‘Look,’ Gladio says hotly. ‘I ain’t jazzed about this either. I’ve had girlfriends, you know? Seems kinda pointless getting close when you know you can’t wind up together.’

When Ravus looks at him, his eyes are piercing. Gladio never thought it was possibly for somebody’s glare to be both icy and burning like the fires of hell, but here they were.

‘I’ll make you a concession, then,’ Ravus snarls. ‘I’ll have them alter the contract before it takes effect. Then you can have as many mistresses as you please.’

Gladio feels like he’s been slapped in the face in the wake of Ravus’s words. Is  _ that _ what this asshole thinks of him? Is that the type of man Ravus thinks he is?

‘Don’t bother,’ Gladio snaps. ‘If you’re gonna be a miserable son of a bitch, I might as well be too.’

Before Ravus can come out with some cutting remark of his own, Gladio turns on his heel and storms off, his feet thundering across the wooden boards beneath him.

* * *

Gladio doesn’t get hangovers.

He doesn’t get hangovers and yet the world spins around him as he wakes up the next morning, and his mouth tastes like he spent the night chewing cigarettes instead of guzzling that sweet-tasting cider they’d been passing around.

It’s probably a little ironic, he thinks as he heaves himself over to the bathroom connected to his bedroom to splash some cold water on himself. He’s the legal age to drink here in Tenebrae, unlike back home in Lucis — not that that ever stopped him before — and he’s celebrating it with his first godsdamned hangover.

As if that isn’t bad enough, he can see sylleblossom petals littering his hair from the festivities when he inspects the damage in the mirror, and that only brings memories of the night before flooding back.

‘Asshole,’ he mutters, as he splashes his neck with water. He’d just been trying to find some common ground with Ravus, and the prince had thoroughly shot him down.

He’s simultaneously starving and nauseous, and by the time he makes himself decent enough to head down for some food, breakfast is long since over. He sits at the dining table anyway — the thought of hauling his ass all the way back up to his room empty-handed is too depressing to handle on this particular morning — and buries his face in the dark, fragrant wood of the table, wrapping his arms around his head.

‘Oh, sweetheart. You poor thing.’

Luna’s voice, at least, is a welcome sound. When Gladio lifts his head, she’s bright and chipper, her vernal gown from the day before traded in for a chic outfit of a white silk blouse and tailored slacks.

‘How’re you alive? You drank more than me!’

Luna has the face — and the graciousness — of an angel, but the smile she flashes is devilish.

‘I had one cup of cider,’ she says, ‘and then I switched to ale. Ulwaat is quite potent. I might have warned you if you hadn’t seemed so intent on oblivion.’

If Gladio didn’t know better, he’d think she was scolding him. Maybe she’s right to.

‘Gods,’ he mutters. ‘I was an ass, wasn’t I?’

Luna glances away innocently. That’s all the confirmation he needs.

‘Please tell me I didn’t spill any state secrets,’ he groans.

‘You talked at great length about how beautiful you find it here,’ Luna replies, with a subtle smile. ‘And you had some choice words about Ravus.’

Dread clutches at Gladio’s stomach.

‘Gods, no.’

‘Alas, yes,’ she replies, with a giggle that seems girlish and wise at the same time. ‘It was rather telling.’

‘Telling?’ Gladio echoes.

She’s looking away again, elusively. That’s a bad sign.

‘C’mon, help me out here,’ he begs. ‘I don’t remember any of it.’

Luna settles herself into the chair beside him, her slender, shapely legs folding in front of her. She’s future-queen and Altissian supermodel in equal parts.

‘You called him an “arrogant jackass”,’ she says, ‘and a “smug little princess”.’

As if that isn’t bad enough — Gladio’s pretty sure that calling a prince of Tenebrae names to his sister counts as some form of treason — there’s a twinkle in her eyes that says there’s more to it.

‘What else aren’t you telling me?’ he probes. ‘Lay it on me.’

‘Well,’ Luna says, diplomatically. She folds her hands in her lap and looks at him levelly. ‘You also said you think he’s beautiful, when he’s not walking around with a face like a smacked bottom — that wasn’t the exact word, but you get my meaning.’

Gladio snorts. That does sound like something he’d say, considering the thundering glower Ravus wears twenty-four-seven. He tenses a moment later, though. He’d called the prince beautiful.

‘Wait. I said what?’

The cider. It must’ve been the cider.

But then, hadn’t he sat through that same seminar Cor had subjected them all to, about decorum at public events serving alcohol? People might blurt all manner of things they’d never dream of saying while sober, but booze only brings out what was already hidden underneath.

That means… Yeah.

Luna seems to know, just from looking at him, what he’s thinking. With a quiet smile, she glances out the window, as though to give him some time to gather his thoughts.

Ravus’s performance  _ had _ been beautiful, in a somber sort of way; the facade of a Tenebraean prince had slipped away as the persona of winter had settled over him. Gladio had told himself, at the time, that he’d been admiring the pageantry of it all, but…

‘Oh.’

‘My brother can be painfully stubborn,’ Luna says, turning to meet his eye, ‘and he’s loyal almost to a fault. Please don’t mistake his obstinance for hatred.’

‘Yeah, he said he didn’t hate me,’ Gladio says gruffly. ‘He just doesn’t give a shit. Uh, begging your forgiveness.’

Luna waves him off.

‘I’ve had the benefit of growing up with Ravus my whole life, Gladiolus. I know him better than anyone else. Believe me when I say that there’s much more to him than meets the eye.’

The dance of the first bloom already showed Gladio as much — but it feels like Luna’s speaking in riddles. He narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to question her, but she’s smiling in that mysterious way of hers again.

‘Talk to him,’ she says. ‘He’ll drive you up the wall and make you question the point in trying, but I promise he’ll surprise you if you give him half a chance.’

She rises gracefully to her feet and rests a hand sweetly on his shoulder.

‘Ask the cook if she has any ulwaat tincture,’ she says. ‘They say the hair of the dog that bit you is remarkably effective.’

* * *

Gladio’s visit coincides with the meteor shower visible over their hemisphere for the first time in two hundred years. It seems beyond lucky to be here for it — back home in Insomnia, light pollution and the shimmering barrier cast over the city by the Crystal would render visibility poor. He knows that Prompto, at least, is jealous; Gladio never pegged him for the astronomy type, but go figure.

It’s not even that Gladio has much of an interest in this kind of thing, but it seems too good of an opportunity to pass up on. Tenebrae is such a slow change of pace from Insomnia that it’s nice to enjoy the more rustic things, like the May Day festivities.

‘The Glaceids should be visible to the west,’ Luna says, checking the almanac she has laid out across the table in front of her. They actually have  _ almanacs _ in Tenebrae, instead of the tried-and-true Moogle searches they rely on back home.

Gladio swallows his mouthful of bacon.

‘What time?’

Luna taps a manicured nail against her lip as she pores over the pages in front of her.

‘Two in the morning,’ she says. ‘They should be visible until just before dawn.’

That means a late-night viewing party. Gladio loves his sleep, but it seems more than worth it.

He spars with the Tenebraean guards once his food’s had time to settle — they fight so differently from the Lucians that it’s a novelty. Afterwards, once he’s showered and dressed in something light for the milder weather, he wanders Tenebrae and takes in the sights, eager to soak it all in while he still can.

The day seems to drag in anticipation of tonight. The plan is to get to bed early enough to not die of exhaustion, but even ten seems so far away.

He sleeps, somehow, but he’s groggy as  _ hell _ when Luna comes knocking on his door. Of course she looks as put-together as ever, her eyes wide with excitement as she takes his hand and tugs him eagerly along the hallway.

It’s just an intimate little gathering, the royal family and a few of their retainers — the queen is there, and she’s at her most informal in a simple black knitted dress that hugs her hips and sways as she moves to greet him.

‘Gladiolus,’ she says warmly, leaning in to kiss his cheek. She smells like she’s been sipping on ulwaat cider. ‘It’s a clear night. Perfect for the shower.’

‘I count myself lucky, Your Grace,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t be able to see any of it back home.’

‘Then your visit truly is well-timed, isn’t it?’ she replies.

There’s wine, which Gladio’s more than happy to stick to after his  _ last _ experience with the cider; it’s heady and fragrant, and it warms his belly as it goes down. He mingles as best he can with the others, although it’s difficult not to keep drifting back to Luna’s side when she’s so easy to get along with. 

A hush falls over the gathering as the first meteor crosses the sky. As Gladio cranes his neck upward to watch, he feels a chill ripple down his spine.

He’s seen lots of improbable things that are commonplace to him now: Noct vanishing in the blink of an eye, leaving a blue outline behind, only to appear feet away; the thrum of the Crystal, pulsing with light, as if it were a beating heart; a sword conjured into hand out of thin air.

None of it compares to this.

Even though the meteors are so far away, barely a streak of light in the sky, they make him feel incredibly  _ small, _ like he can feel the touch of some larger power. It’s not a bad thing.

When he glances over at Ravus across the brim of his wine glass, the prince is standing away from the others, his face turned towards the sky. He really does look beautiful in the moonlight: beautiful, and lonely.

He turns away.

‘You seem pensive.’

Luna’s arm slips through his own and she steps close to him, her eyes shining with the light of the moon as she looks up at him.

He shrugs.

‘Tired. Used to early drills back home, but not  _ this _ early.’

‘It’s worth it though, wouldn’t you say?’ she murmurs.

‘Mhm.’

She toys with the end of his sleeve, fiddling with the Lucian skull motif on the cufflinks he paired with his black dress shirt.

‘Did you get a chance to speak to Ravus?’ she asks idly.

Gladio heaves a sigh. He should’ve known she had a motive in coming to him.

‘Don’t feel too much like having my head bitten off tonight,’ he says. ‘Kinda ruin the mood, wouldn’t it?’

When he meets Luna’s eye, she’s smiling — but she has a look of determination on her face that he’s come to know all too well.

‘Talk to him,’ she says. ‘Now’s the perfect chance.’

Gladio shoots a look in the prince’s direction. He doesn’t think Ravus much looks like he wants to be bothered — in fact, his body language is so closed off that Gladio’s willing to bet the opposite.

Luna nudges him. He’s not going to win this one.

‘Fine,’ he sighs. ‘Just don’t expect any miracles.’

She gives him another nudge, and she doesn’t leave him until he finally slips his arm free of hers and heads across the terrace to where Ravus stands, so far from everyone else.

He’s dressed simply today: a white silk shirt, and black slacks that sit low on his hips. The shirt sets off the angle of his shoulders. Gladio never really noticed how  _ broad _ the guy is, how his torso tapers down to a narrow waist.

‘Never seen anything like it,’ Gladio says, as he steps up beside the prince. 

A meteor skirts across the sky, with a particularly vivid streak of light. Ravus shifts slightly.

_ This is going well. _

‘Listen, uh.’

Gladio scratches the shorn hair at the side of his head. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say here, or if he should just cut his losses and go.

‘Lunafreya sent you, didn’t she?’

‘Yeah,’ Gladio says, with a sheepish grin. ‘How’d you know?’

Ravus sighs. When he tilts his face skywards, it sets his jawline, the sculpted shape of his nose, in silhouette against the moon. His hair almost looks like spun silver.

‘She’s been pressing me to speak with you,’ Ravus says. ‘Hounding me for days.’

Gladio laughs, in spite of himself. That definitely sounds like the princess he’s come to know in his time here in Tenebrae.

He leans forward on the balustrade, looking out across the manicured gardens. Another meteor catches his eye, and it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared.

‘Maybe she’s got a point,’ he murmurs, maybe too quiet for Ravus to hear.

He runs his fingers absently over the surface of the balustrade, following the patterns in the marble.

He’s been with girls — more than he can count on both hands. It’s not a point of pride for him, it’s just a fact; he’s always found it easy to charm them, ever since he first started taking an interest. He always knows what to say, always knows just the right way to coax them.

This is different, though. He’s supposed to marry Ravus, and every time they talk, one or both of them seem to storm off in a bad mood.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ravus says.

Gladio blinks.

‘Come again?’

Ravus is silent for a long while as he watches the light show above. It dies down for a little while, and the stars twinkle quietly, millions of miles away.

‘I was never going to be king,’ Ravus says. ‘Even before Lunafreya came along, my mother knew it. I didn’t have the right  _ temperament, _ she once told me. I suppose she was right.’

Gladio keeps his mouth firmly shut.

‘Not a king,’ Ravus says. ‘Not an Oracle. I suppose my mother didn’t know what to do with me, and it made sense to arrange a political marriage. Something to  _ further solidify the bonds between our nations.’ _

He doesn’t sound bitter, just… resigned. Like he’s had a lot longer to get used to the fact than Gladio has.

‘I’m sorry you were dragged into it,’ Ravus says. ‘You might have found someone you loved, if it weren’t for me.’

Gladio looks down at his hands. He’s thought about that, sure. Thought about the many girls who felt like  _ The One, _ and the many who didn’t.

‘I didn’t choose to be born Noct’s Shield,’ he replies, ‘but I do it ‘cause it’s my duty. We don’t get to decide the circumstances we’re born into.’

He’s not sure if those words are comforting. Maybe it sounds like defeat —  _ I don’t want to do this, but I have to; I don’t have any other choice. _ That’s never how it’s felt, to him; most people aren’t born with a calling. Most people don’t grow up knowing they’ll pledge their life to their king someday, and stand proudly at his side through thick and thin.

‘I know we’ll never love each other,’ he says. ‘Not… not like  _ that. _ But I don’t wanna be miserable, Highness. I don’t want you to be, either.’

He turns and looks at Ravus; finds the prince has been watching him this whole time, his steel-grey eyes devoid of their usual coolness.

‘So what, then?’ Ravus asks. ‘What do we do?’

Gladio shrugs.

‘We try to be friends. We can swing that at least, right?’

He lifts his eyes to the prince’s; Ravus looks away.

‘Friends,’ Ravus says. ‘I think… I think we can do that.’

Gladio gives a nod. He wonders if they’re supposed to shake on this, or something. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to navigate  _ any _ of this.

‘I’ll let you get back to watching the shower,’ Gladio says, stepping back. ‘Thanks for hearin’ me out.’

Ravus says nothing. With his back to Gladio, the moonlight glowing across his shoulders, he turns his face once more towards the sky.

* * *

Gladio feels drunk by the time he drags himself back to his room, even though he only had two glasses of wine. It’s close enough to dawn that he might just be getting up to train Noct before school right around now, but his eyes are gritty with exhaustion and he can barely walk straight.

His bed practically  _ sings _ to him when he opens the door. Even the plush carpet on the floor looks appealing.

He’s undressing, just shrugging his shirt off his shoulders, when a knock comes at the door. He groans — it’s tempting to tell whoever it is to go screw themselves, but he knows they wouldn’t be bothering him at this hour if it weren’t important.

He’s still unkempt, his shirt hanging open, his hair pushed to the side where he raked a hand through it. It’s like this that he opens the door, and finds Ravus standing outside.

He’s not sure who’s more stunned to see the other; Ravus shoots a look down at his chest, taking in the tattoo, before lifting his glance to meet Gladio’s.

‘I’m sorry,’ the prince blurts. ‘Is this a bad time?’

It’s five in the morning, and they’ve all been awake since a little before two. Gladio considers reminding Ravus of this fact, but then he remembers that they’re supposed to be trying to find common ground. With a shake of his head, he pulls the door wide and motions for Ravus to come in.

‘What can I do for you, Highness?’ he asks, as Ravus slips past him and he shuts the door.

‘Just Ravus, please.’

The prince seems agitated. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion, but he’s fidgeting, pacing about the expanse of Gladio’s room. Gladio’s never seen the guy like this —  _ flighty _ seems to be the right word. He’s about to question it when Ravus stops and swivels on his heels, turning to face him.

‘I don’t want to be friends,’ he says.

Gladio’s gut lurches.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I don’t  _ want _ to be friends,’ Ravus says again, more intensely this time.

He’s clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides; he’s sober, but somebody would be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

‘I want to fall in love,’ he says. ‘I want to wake up every morning and smile to see the one I love lying there beside me. I want to know that out of everyone in the world, they’re the one I’m supposed to be with.’

Gladio swallows. He  _ knows, _ he  _ gets it. _ With the two of them being betrothed, Ravus has had that taken away from him. All of it.

‘I’m sorry you won’t get that chance.’

Ravus makes an exasperated sort of sound, throwing his hands up. His cheeks are flushed; he marches across the floor, moves as if to grab Gladio by the shoulders, then stops himself.

‘You don’t  _ understand,’ _ he says wildly. ‘I want that  _ with you.’ _

Ravus is talking, but his words don’t make sense. Gladio tries to rearrange them, to rework them into some sense of order. Every time, they all fall into place the same way.

_ With you. _

‘I’ve watched you grow into the man you are today,’ Ravus says, ‘and the closer we get to our wedding, it only makes you more unattainable. I know you’ve had girls — I’ve heard the way the kingsglaives talk about you, like you’re some legend. I’m not like that, Gladiolus. I’ve…’

Gladio swallows. It feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under him.

‘You’re strong,’ Ravus says. He almost sounds bitter about it. ‘Not just physically… You know what may be required of you someday, in service to Prince Noctis. I admire that conviction.’

He takes a half-step forward. His hands clench once more at his sides, before he finally releases them.

‘You’re handsome. You’re kind, and witty, and you get along so  _ well _ with everyone. You’re everything I’m not.’

Gladio’s falling, still falling — abruptly, he seems to hit the ground at last. All this time, he’s been convinced Ravus looked down on him, when instead…

‘Highness,’ he says softly. ‘Ravus.’

The prince lifts his eyes. It strikes Gladio that he’s never really looked at them up close, never seen the patterns of interweaving shades of pale and darker blue in them.

Ravus worries his teeth into his bottom lip.

Gladio’s thought about it. Wondered what their wedding night would be like; if they’d consummate it, like the tradition dictated. He and some of the glaives had made jokes about seeing if Regis would bring back  _ prima nocta; _ one of them had made a crack about Ravus being as cold and unmoving as a lump of ice.

He’s always known there would come a day when he’d have to tackle that problem head-on, when the thing he’d only ever thought about in abstract would become a reality. Once married, they’d share a bed, as would be expected of them.

He thought about it, too, the night of the May Day festivities — about how beautiful Ravus had looked. Had figured that maybe if they were going to be stuck together, at least they’d make a good looking couple.

And tonight, at the meteor shower, when Ravus had stood alone: unapproachable, unattainable.

The prince is looking at him, expectantly. Waiting for—  _ something. _

Gladio realises he’s waiting, too. Realises nothing’s going to happen until he makes a move.

He takes a step forward. Ravus’s brows raise slightly, his lips parting in question. Before he can say anything — before either of them can mess this up — Gladio slips his hand into the prince’s hair and covers his mouth with his own.

Ravus’s lips aren’t ice, like that glaive had quipped; they’re warm and soft and pliant. They yield to Gladio, parting enough for his tongue; that first contact of Ravus’s tongue against his own sends a ripple of need through Gladio and he groans, low, tugging gently at Ravus’s hair. Ravus is a good kisser, giving in one moment and taking what he wants the next.

The prince is wide-eyed when they part, his chest heaving. His lips are flushed from the force of their kisses, like bruised rose petals.

It seems inevitable, what should come next; Gladio’s hands move as if compelled by some higher power, carefully unbuttoning Ravus’s shirt. He can see heat creeping up the prince’s neck, can see the way his pulse flickers at his throat.

‘C’mere,’ Gladio growls.

Ravus only hesitates for one heartbeat. The next, he’s pushing Gladio’s shirt off his shoulders, fingertips digging into his skin.

‘I want you,’ Ravus breathes, as Gladio’s lips find his throat. ‘I want you so badly…’

The words resonate deep within Gladio, down to his core.

‘You got me,’ he says. ‘I’m all yours.’

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

 

The pull of fingers through Gladio’s hair, smooth and methodical, is almost enough to lull him to sleep.

Or at least it would be, if he weren’t so nervous he could barf.

He twists to inspect his hair in the mirror in front of him, and Luna shoots him a look that’s somehow sweet and deadly at the same time.

‘You’re like a child, Gladiolus,’ she chides fondly. ‘Sit  _ still.’ _

It’s easier said than done, but Gladio obeys as best he can. When he starts anxiously drumming his hands on his knees, he catches himself just in time to avoid another withering look from her.

‘There,’ she says. ‘All done.’

Once her hands are safely away from his hair, he turns this way and that to look.

His hair’s grown out somewhat in the past year, although he’s kept the sides cropped. Luna’s pulled strands of it back into braids, clipped at the back with an intricate metal fastening — ‘It’s the Fleuret seal,’ Luna explains, as she lifts a hand mirror to show him — and left the rest loose. Through the braids she’s threaded sprays of sylleblossom, the blue standing out vividly against the dark brown of his hair.

He’s not sure he looks entirely like himself, but… that almost makes him like it more.

‘Geeze, Luna,’ he says, his throat tightening. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Don’t you dare cry,’ Luna chides, lightly slapping his shoulder. 

That’s enough to drag Gladio to his feet and have him pulling her into her arms with a hug that’s almost strong enough to lift her off her feet.

‘Thank you,’ he whispers, squeezing her tight. ‘Love you.’

Luna’s smile is watery as she pulls away and touches his cheek.

‘I love you too,’ she says. ‘Now stop, before you set me off.’

The rest of the morning seems to pass in a blur — people dip in to wish him good luck, there are last-minute adjustments made to his suit, and a waiter swings by with champagne, which tempting as it is, he refuses. By the time his father arrives at his door to fetch him, he’s practically vibrating with nerves.

‘You look wonderful, Son,’ Clarus says. ‘Your mother would have been so proud.’

When tears prick at the corners of Gladio’s eyes, he barely bothers to stop them.

There’d been some confusion over where to have the wedding. In the end, Gladio had put his foot down — it seemed only right to have it in Tenebrae, where he and Ravus had finally made their peace. He’s glad for it, too: Fenestala Manor makes for a beautiful venue, with freshly cut sylleblossoms everywhere to fill the halls with their sweet smell.

It’s late-spring, a year after the meteor shower, to the day — Ravus’s insistence, this time. It’s mild enough that the ceremony itself will take place in the gardens outside, and as Gladio moves down the stairs in the main hall, with the great rose-shaped window to his right, he can see everybody gathered outside.

Waiting. For  _ him. To get married. _

The doors out to the gardens are glass and latticework; Gladio can see the full extent of the crowd up close and personal, with the officiant waiting by the altar. There’s an archway set up behind her, spilling over with sylleblossoms, and—

‘Gladioli,’ he blurts.

Clarus is smiling when he looks over.

‘Prince Ravus’s suggestion,’ his father says. ‘I thought it was a nice touch.’

Gladio’s heart flutters. It’s really happening.

‘Are you ready?’ Clarus asks, squeezing his shoulder.

Gladio swallows.

‘As I’ll ever be.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
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